Blood Binds – But Betrayal Blinds
THIRTEEN – Communiqué of Duplicity
Rating: PG/PG-13
Setting: LA, Unknown Location in Eastern Europe, Berlin, Vienna, Mauthausen, Salzburg, Munich, Winterthur, Zurich
Characters: Anna Espinoza, Marianske Kafka (Naomi Watts), Marcus Dixon, Jack Bristow, Abs Michaelis (Jessica Alba), Sark, Eric Weiss, Will Tippin, Sydney Bristow, McKenas Cole, Arvin Sloane Mentioned: Robin Dixon, Steven Dixon, Michael Vaughn, Matthias Mohrle (undecided), Renee Persson (undecided), Elle Williams (Maggie Gyllenhaal)
Length: 7,087 Words
Note: Please read the newly updated Title Info (before chapter one). Thanks!
With a flip of the hair, and a flick of the cigarette, Anna speaks. "You have the Intel, right? Or are you going to need another nineteen minutes to go get it?" She asks. And her Russian accent is so pleasing - so enjoyable to hear. She's reprimanding the other woman. She's putting her in her arrogant little place. No one shows up late to see Anna Espinoza. No. One. And Marianske nods, reaching in to the deep pocket on her trench coat. She pulls the black CD jewel case out, opening it to show the disc. And Anna presses her full lips together, taking a deep breath. She snatches the disc from the other woman's hands, slipping it in her own purse.
She turns to retreat, but stops. "Do not show up late again. If I ever have to wait for you ever again, you'll regret it." Her hair flips again. Still angry. And now it's her black heeled boots that are making a popping, not a clicking, sound as she walks away. Black pants and a black leather jacket. Assassin black. And she slips in to her sleek, sexy, black Jaguar. Her prowling little cat that speeds out of the parking garage with a squeal of tires. And it's fast. Fast like the animal it's named for. Her purse is tossed in the passenger seat, her foot pressing the gas to the floor. She uses the button to lower the window, wind rushing in and blowing her hair all about. The night sky fills the car. A smile.
Two men. Each on different sides of the desk. And the one who sits as though he commands the desk actually does not. And the one, who sits casually in the seat before the desk, is anxiously waiting for words. Two men. One desk. And one conversation looming in silence.
Jack Bristow looks up, placing the papers down on Marcus Dixon's desk. He takes a deep breath, subtly making sure the papers are perfectly in order with one another. He does this when he's frustrated, and anxious. He tends to let these Obsessive Compulsive Disorders rule his mind when he's trying to think about anything other than the daughter he could not protect. He makes sure all the pictures of Dixon's children are equally spaced, staring for a while at Robin's most recent school portrait. And Jack looks up, meeting his eyes with Dixon's. "Robin is such an amazing young woman." He says this in the tone of voice only a father can find within. Dixon smiles, nodding for a moment.
Marcus takes a deep breath, sitting up a little straighter. "So is Sydney." He replies. And then there's silence as both men let the words and thoughts sink in. Sydney is gone. Sydney is in Covenant custody again. Jack sighs, and Dixon can see the stress plaguing this man. He can see the bags under his eyes and the pain burning from within. He feels for him, knowing the feelings all too well - all too recent.
Jack lets a heavy breath leave his mouth. It's time. Time for these two men in this room, sitting in the seats they don't normally, to talk about Sydney. Or maybe it isn't. Jack knows that right now he only wants to process the information he's just read. This analyst - he knows her name, knows her work - has done a good job. She's thorough when she researches anything, going down all the avenues she needs. She's smart. And judging by her work done in the past, he wonders if she maybe works too hard. It's actually very common for someone of her age and experience to get burnt out quickly. "So now the question at hand, is if we should negotiate or not."
Dixon nods. "We've had this conversation, Jack." And Jack is looking back at the report. "We had this conversation when Robin and Steven were kidnapped. And it was Sydney who pointed out that the last time we tried to negotiate with the Covenant, they killed one of the two hostages." Dixon presses his lips together, waiting for Jack to make eye contact. And he leans forward in the chair. "Sydney is only one hostage. And you know that they will be viewing this as all or nothing."
"The two men that Walker wants released - have you located them?" Jack asks. He's avoiding the thoughts of Sydney. He wants to keep this as business. In fact he needs to keep this as business. Otherwise, he knows that he's going to end up becoming consumed with the every little detail.
"Mohrle is being held in a maximum security prison in Denmark, while Persson is in Australia." Dixon waits for Jack to speak. But the man doesn't. He just sits behind the desk, thinking. And Jack looks up at Dixon, his lips pressed together firm and his face painted with concern, anxiety or frustration. Maybe it's a mixture of all three. And he finally takes a deep breath, appears to be preparing to speak.
He taps the pen on the table for a moment, then suddenly stops. "Where is Sloane?" Jack questions. And this is one of the many topics that Dixon has been sweating. He hates what he did. He hates that he is the man who helped set that son of a bitch free. Dixon stands from the chair, walking over to a bookshelf on the far wall. And Jack knows he's evading the question. Dixon lets he's eyes peruse the titles he knows so well, before he completely freezes upon the sound of Jack's voice. "What?"
Marcus turns, a sigh escaping his body. "Sloane worked out a pardon agreement. He gave us information in exchange for his freedom." The displeased look on the other man's face does not surprise Dixon one bit. He's disappointed in himself right now. "That is the second time I've had to let Arvin Sloane walk out of this building - as a free man. And I promise you right now, that if he is ever so lucky as to grace these offices again, I will have him killed and there WILL be no pardon." Anger. Jack feels it too. And desperation. Feelings that the men share. One man behind the desk he does not own and the other by the book shelf he does own.
"So what is our next move? When is the next meeting?" The words are calm. Maybe. But Dixon knows that Jack can snap. Just like Vaughn.
Vaughn. "Well," Dixon states, slowly. "I want to have a meeting when Sydney makes contact, like Walker promised." He takes a deep breath. "In the mean time, I thought you might want to do the honors of informing Agent Vaughn what is going on."
"What?" Jack looks confused.
"Vaughn is currently being held in a cell." Jack raises an eyebrow at the words. "He lost his temper and I felt it would be in his best interest to have the opportunity to calm down and have a few words with Barnett." And before the man is even done speaking, Jack is up out of the chair, leaving the office.
The furious black cat rolls to a halt, purring like it should, and she's at a park. It's only been a half an hour - Anna made it from Vienna to Mauthausen in record time. And she leaves the car on as she steps out. Now her heels are clicking on an asphalt path. She holds a brown paper sack, lips pressed together and urgency burning in her every step. She thinks of what's inside the bag, seeing it like the bag its self is transparent. Feet pounding like a heartbeat, and every leg appears like it's crossing over the other. She's nothing but hips and curves as she approaches the bench. There's a bundle of blankets and a coat lying on the bench - a man asleep. She walks past him, ten, twenty, thirty feet, until she reaches the trashcan. Sure, to the average person, she could have placed this bag in the can next to the bench. But no. That would be wrong.
In the darkness she retreats, back to her Jaguar, speeding away from the park. Awake. The man on the bench sits up, pulling a cell phone from his pocket. No one is around. And he mumbles something in to the cell, before lying back down on the bench, a constant view of the trashcan. Phase Two. A man is walking from the other direction, a bright orange vest over his clothes that says something like 'Park Maintenance' in a Germanic language. He pulls the trash bag from the can Anna just visited, and then walks down the path, past the man on the bench. And now he's leaving, twenty, thirty, forty feet away. The trash bag is open, and he has the brown paper bag in his hand. He dumps the paper bag, the remaining garbage, and his orange vest in a different garbage can. And he's in the silver Mercedes. Fast. Powerful. He drives out of the park, leaving the city.
She brings the foot long wooden match to her lips and with an efficient quick gust of air from her lungs, blows it out, sending smoke whirling up in front of her. She then surveys the room, noting the candles she's just lit. There are so many, all resting on the windowsill that takes up the entire length of, and is behind the luxurious stand-alone porcelain tub, the window and room feeling like it was fit to match the tub. She leans forward, reaching across the tub, since the faucet is at the side, with the window, as opposed to the standard head or foot of the tub. And she lets her hand barely touch the water - it's to her liking, and shuts the faucet off.
She then turns from the tub, untying the thin; nearly see through curtains back from each side of the length of the tub. They quickly meet, just on the other side of the tub as the faucet. With the fluorescent lights in the bathroom, she can see right though the curtains into the tub that is full of mounds of white fluffy bubbles and smells of peach bath salt. She then takes a deep breath, and reaches for the light switch. And once the fluorescent bulbs are out, the curtains that were once see through, glow an opaque deep red and brown. She lets the gray blue silk robe slowly slip from her body, but folds it before it ever hits the floor. She takes the garment, placing it on a hook, the hue matching that of Sark's eyes when he is just on the edge of release, glossy, shiny, cloudy.
And she walks, her body bare, and the room dark, to the tub, pulling back the curtains only slightly and for a moment, as she slips in. Her hair is tied up, pulled back, and she lets the warm water wash over her as she lies back into oblivion. Calgon, take me away. She closes her eyes, breathing in the many scents that fill the air. She only buys Gardenia, Magnolia, Vanilla, and Jasmine candles, all cream colored, cylindrical and different heights, and widths. And each scent has a different meaning to her; each scent evokes a different memory in her mind as she breathes them in.
Jasmine reminds her of home - the only home she ever really knew. Jasmine reminds her of New Orleans, slow, sensual, smooth, just like thick blues chords, and soft leathery skinned, weathered and tanned from years in the sun. The smell of Jasmine reminds her of all the women she knew, the old black ladies who would spend days cooking their secret-recipe jambalaya. She used to remember the smell of those women as a young girl, going to buy clothes with her mom at the same small boutique every year for the summer. She used to always ask the woman about the scent, because it would fascinate her.
Vanilla is her mother. Vanilla is soft and warm, like Christmas mornings. Vanilla always makes her think go when she was young - probably 7 years old, sitting on the cold tile floor in the kitchen as her mom would watch the news on the small TV, and brush and fix her hair. She'd always say, "Abigail, you have beautiful hair," in spite of the fact that the poor girl hated the crinkly little corkscrew hairs. Abs is only partially black, but still knows the struggles of nappy hair. And she remembers how her mom would always stand her up, look her over and give her a squirt of the Vanilla mist, saying, "Now you're a lady."
She breathes in again, this time Gardenias. Small white flowers, always picked from the garden and brought into the house when she was younger. Gardenia reminds her of her father, the man that would always over look her as she brought the flowers in. "Dad, these are for your desk," She'd let the smile dance on her face, walking in to her father's office, proud at what she brought. And he'd turn to her, a stressed and busy look on his face. "That's fine, Abigail, can you take them and show your mom?" He'd always ask and she'd always comply. Gardenia is painful, and she only buys these candles to punish herself. She refuses to forget her father, even though he finds it so easy to forget her.
The next smell lingering on her nasal pallet is the Peach bath salt. Peaches remind her of her grandparents - her mother's parents. Peaches remind her of summers spent at the huge plantation home, white colonial columns dating back to the time of forefathers and exhibiting the essence of wealth. And they remind her of running through the grass with her older brother and cousins, bare foot, to the peach orchard, where her grandfather would always be waiting with the ripest of the picking. And they remind her of Fourth of July's with a sticky face, not eating her bar-be-que dinner because she's so full on peaches. And lying on her back in the grass, watching the lightning bugs dance above her eyes, the insects creating their own fireworks.
And she closes her eyes this time, letting the next scent enter her body - Magnolias. Her mind drifts to adolescence, Washington DC and long walks alone. When her brother died, she was sent to live with her father's parents in Washington, because her mother simply could not cope. And they remind her of the long row of trees dressed in the light rouge flowers that were along the side walk on her way to school, going to one of the most prestigious academies in the country - attending classes with the children of elected officials. Magnolias remind her of being alone, and missing her brother. And Magnolias remind her of helplessness, but she won't forget her brother just like she won't forget her father.
And finally there's the new scent - the burning in scent close on the windowsill. The new scent is Sandalwood, reminding her of the man she should probably not want to. Sandalwood is Sark, and India, and heat. Sandalwood reminds her of the first time they met - a small cafe in New Delhi, which smelled of only Sandalwood. He slipped in to the seat across from her. "I'll be working with you, Ms. Michaelis," His words were slow, and his pale white skin stood out in the cafe, hers being a tan color. And he smiled at her, before ordering a green tea. Sark is sandalwood, masculine, enchanting and strong.
Abs feels the way her eyes shoot open at the sound of the bathroom door clicking open. She listens, wondering whom it is that could be coming to see her. Aiden. But she knows different turning her head. She can see him, but he can't see her. Sark. He takes a deep breath, walking into the room, slowly. And he's wearing a black Armani suit now - she wonders why he changed his clothes. "May I have a word?" He questions. And Abs moves the water around, her face turning from his direction to the window. She stares out at the night sky, before she sighs.
"Do I really have a choice?" She questions, rolling her eyes, knowing she can't take the satisfaction in him seeing. And she's angry, she truly is. "Fuck your words, Sark - You never mean them." He knows she's angry. And he takes a deep audible breath and she sighs. "Whatever, Sark, no matter what you're still going to speak, I have no choice in the matter." Sark nods, turning to the door as he shuts it. She hears it click into the frame, and then hears as he clicks the lock. Abs scoffs. "Do you really have to lock the door to have a word with me, Sark?" She asks, turning her face to the window, because even though he can't see her, she doesn't want to see him.
Salzburg, Austria. And the disc is safely tucked away, the only thing residing, in sleek black suitcase. He changed his clothes. Stopped at a rest top along the way. Black leather - pants and coat. And there's a red shirt too, a pop to the eye. His Mercedes thunders along. Nightlife. He pulls into the parking lot of an ultra-chic, euro-trash dance club. And when he shuts the car off, stepping out, instantly his body begins to fill with the thumping bass. The parking lot is empty, save for the hand full of crack smokers around back. He then enters the club with out reservation, walking through the sea of bumping, grinding bodies. It smells like sweat, mixtures of colognes and perfumes, and the essence of drugs, illegal or not. The men's bathroom. Never a safe place for one to enter alone. Luckily, no one is performing any sex acts. And he enters the first stall, leaving the briefcase.
Retreat. The bass consumes him. He enters the crowd blending in with the bodies colliding. And she stands out. White. Pure. Honest. Leather. She's an angel, glitter sparkling with perspiration on her face. She's in the men's bathroom, the briefcase now in her hand. Red hair. Crayon red. She's quick, and smooth, slithering through the people like a snake after its prey. The parking lot. The people smoking crack. She walks down the street. 4 AM. And just a few blocks away she enters the large train station, sitting down on one of the wooden benches, legs crossed. A man sits on the bench directly behind her, and she places her briefcase next to that of the man's. An announcement. Munich. And the man behind her stands, taking the briefcase she sat down. And she smiles, picking up the one he left, opening it. Money.
Weiss sits alone in the small conference room, silence comforting his ears. This is him. Just him. He takes a deep breath, writing his debrief from the most recent mission. And that's just a stupid way to put it. This is the debrief from the mission. The mission that can't be classified as failed, because they did retrieve the desired serum prototype. But in the process they lost probably the most valuable piece of human force the CIA ever acquired. And he feels guilty. He feels like some how he could have prevented it. Maybe if he had been in a different location. Maybe if he had been paying more attention to the surveillance footage. The maybes are mounting. The many maybes. And then there are the 'what if's. He doesn't know if he's going to be sleeping tonight. No. He knows he's not.
A tapping sound. A knock. And Weiss looks up to see Will standing in the doorway. He holds a bottled iced coffee in one hand, and enters the room with out an invitation. "Thought you might need this." He says, placing it in front of the agent. And Will sits down in the chair across from Weiss, watching as the other man graciously smiles, opening the bottle. "So, Harry, do you need someone to talk to?" Harry Houdini. He's changed it. Instead of the last name he now calls him by the first. He isn't sure why. And Weiss finds it less than amusing. Maybe some other time.
"I think we probably all need someone to talk to." Weiss replies. He then takes a deep breath, putting the pen down. "Thanks for the coffee, by the way."
"Compliments of Elle Williams." Both men then sit in silence. It's weird how he came to talk, and yet they have nothing to say. And so they wait for a moment, because Weiss knows Will has a purpose here. He knows that this man would not be here, unless he had a real reason. He figures it's best to just let him find the words on his own, because otherwise the words might never be said. "So... How about those Lakers?" Will questions. Well. That was anticlimactic.
Weiss frowns. "I don't know, they seem to be doing pretty well. Aren't they in the play-offs?" He asks back. This is just stupid. Certainly there is something more compelling the two of them can be talking about. Isn't there?
Will shrugs. "I have no idea. I was just making conversation." He replies. Silence. Again. Always with the agonizing silence between these two. Especially now. They both want to talk about Sydney. But they both also refuse to talk about Sydney. It's painful to sit in this silence.
"Ya know, it's probably best to make conversation with a topic you can actually converse on." And so maybe Weiss might have to control this conversation. Not maybe. He knows he's going to have to. Ever since Will came back from being in the witness protection program, he's changed. They've tried to talk, tried to catch up on old times, but it always leads to one mentioning something the other knows nothing about. And they've tried to make new things to talk about. That never works either. He takes a drink of the coffee, looking at the bottle, and then places it on the table. "So, what's Elle's story?" Maybe she's something they can have in common.
"Her story?" Will questions in return, confused. "What do you mean her story? She's an analyst and this morning it was discovered that she did a report on the men that Walker mentioned." Will is being like this on purpose, Weiss knows. And Weiss is trying to read the other man's body language. He's trying to discover the unspoken words that Will always displays. It's odd that he can't find any now.
"It seems to be a pretty simple question." Weiss isn't trying to be hostile. But maybe he can't help it. Or maybe he's enjoying it. "Do I need to explain it to you?" He wonders if the other man is starting to feel uncomfortable. Maybe the sudden hand running through his hair. Or maybe it's the way his eyes dart, and then land back on Weiss's face. He shrugs.
Will sighs. "Well I don't really know. I hadn't actually met her - though I had officially met her, or been introduced - until today." That seems kind of pathetic, Weiss thinks. If it had been him, he would have introduced himself on day one. And the girl has this great personality. She's just so inviting. How could Will have not gotten to know her.
"You're her superior and you didn't meet her until today?" He waits for a moment. "What the hell have you been doing for the past month?" Silence. Again.
His body moves back and forth, slightly, with the move of the train. He's in his forties, sitting in the small train car, wearing a tan trench coat. His legs are crossed, and an Italian man sits before him. Ten Minutes. Fifteen Minutes. He stands, taking his briefcase with him, and exits the car, leaving his newspaper. He then walks down the narrow hall, to the dining car. He sits down at a table alone - third table in, sitting in the seat on the aisle, closest to the door he entered - and waits for the attendant. Coffee. No sugar. One cream. He drinks the hot liquid, opening the briefcase. And he then takes the disc out, sliding it under the white tablecloth. He then stands, leaving a few dollars, and walks back to his car.
She puts her black hair up in a French twist, taking the money from the table. She then reaches beneath the tablecloth, putting the disc in her apron. Munich. The train stops, and she's out, fast, changing from the work clothes as she walks. A taxi. She uses the money left in the dining car to pay. While on the drive she turns the jacket she's wearing inside out, a logo on the side, and slips a black ball cap on. And she arrives at the Deutsche- Einmal Bucht Publishing Company. She walks in through the front, appearing as a worker, to the loading dock, where the boxes are being packed. She finds the one she needs - a specific children's book, and places the disc on top. And she then tapes it shut, walking to the train headed into Switzerland. She speaks to the driver, before she places the box on the back. And he then leaves, knowing nothing.
Sark can hear her moving in the water, and he can only imagine how she looks as he scans the gorgeous bathroom. It's narrow; the toilet housed in its own little room near his end. The door is on the parallel wall with the window. There's one wall, the one to his right that has nothing on it, and yet the wall to his left contains the sink and counter, the mirror, and of course the door to the toilet. He turns to the corner for a moment, and picks up the chair, carrying it to a spot probably four feet from the tub; he sits, letting a breath leave through his nose. "Yes?" Abs prompts, and Sark figures he'd better speak.
Sark looks down at one of his sleeves for a moment, making sure his French cuff is perfect. "I suppose, this is where we have the requisite discussion about where this is going." He knows she's mad because even though he can't see her, he already can tell that she's snapped her neck in his direction and is now shooting him a death filled glare. This is where things get tough, because he knows that he's already upset her today.
She exhales heavily, but doesn't sigh. "Julian, I know where this is going, so maybe you should simply shut the f up, and leave this room." She doesn't hesitate, but for a moment, as she continues to speak. "This place, this organization and this team is littered with your exes, your soon-to-be exes and of course our future conquests. I can see how you'll react to the new woman to arrive in a matter of hours." Abs scoffs, an evil low laughter filling the air. "So as I said, we don't need to have this discussion, Julian, I know where I become a means to an end for you."
He takes a deep breath, trying to decide what his next move should be, because above all, life with Abs is a game. He presses his lips together, breathing through his nose now. And he smells it, the scent he knows so well. He smiles; drifting back to the hot sun and the first time his eyes met hers - wild and fiery. He murmurs, softly, "Sandalwood and green tea." His words are barely audible, but he knows she's heard them, because he hears the water move only slightly. "You were wearing a black tank top and your hair was long, cascading over your tanned shoulders." Sark closes his eyes only slightly; "You kept bumping your knee with mine at the small cafe table. And you-"
"Please don't sit and try to remind me of the day we started this." He can feel her sharp painful stabbing glare on his body even though he can't see it. "It won't save you this time."
Sark is as quick in response - just as quick as her. "I wasn't aware I needed saving, Abigail."
There's a splash in the water, and she's frustrated. "Oh fucking Christ, Sark! See that right there is what I cannot stand" Her pointed words are only expected. "Your massive superiority complex is really beginning to wear on my last damn nerve, so if you are just here to reminisce on how good you stuck it to me. Leave. Now." And her icy words seem like they could put out every flame in the room, especially the one within him.
His mind is analyzing everything. And it annoys him to know that she is now trying to control the words and the tone of this conversation, taking them from casualties to formalities. "This is who I am." His words are almost vulnerable.
And she is speaking before he can add, leaving his mouth slightly parted. "No, Sark, this isn't who you are, it's who you pretend to be."
He runs his hand through his short hair, wishing he had something to grip and pull. "Damn it Abs, stop analyzing what is not there." His words are stern.
"Then why the hell are you in here if not to talk?" Her words are a low growl, angry. And she leaves a tense pause, both holding bated breath. The anger is seeping through the air, into their skin, taking control over their thoughts. The quiet peace, tranquility and warm water, she had is now gone, because it left the room he opened the door. And a sigh cuts the air, her sigh. The breath leaves her, like her hope, and her faith and her peaceful tranquility have all left her. "Sark, you want things easy, in black and white with out anyone hanging on, and I can't give you easy. You won't change and I won't change because there's a gray area I see and you don't. So damn it, let's just fucking let this go, already." She sighs again after her last strained words, and he knows that this is the last thing she truly wants to say.
He waits a moment, knowing the words he's going to say. "I'm in here, Abs. I wouldn't be in here if I wanted to let things go, and you wouldn't be letting me stay if you wanted to let things go." He says, his words on point, sharp and prepared.
"Personally, I prefer not to hit a man when he has been knocked down - I prefer to do the knocking down." She waits one moment to make him hear the next part. "Sark, you got knocked down today." Her words a dry, and meant to sting.
Sark eyes the tub, wishing he could see her face, and squints, making out her silhouette only slightly. "Are you saying you want me to leave?"
Winterthur, Switzerland. The truck with the words Deutsche- Einmal Bucht written in bold blue lettering on the side slowly comes to a halt outside of a small bookstore. Ancient wooden doors and evergreen paneling. So vaguely reassuring in its unobtrusiveness. No one would think... A man opens the door, waiting as the driver carries the heavy cardboard boxes inside. It's cold, puffs of warm air coming from each of the men, visual in the dark morning air. Five boxes. The first is a children's book - A revised version of the Bremen Town Musicians. All of the boxes are placed in the back, stacked so very neatly, and quickly the driver returns to his truck, continuing on his route. 4:30 AM. Oblivious.
It's a ripping noise. Loud and heavy in the air as he pulls back the brown packing tape. The first box is only full of the books it says, and so he continues on to the next. He's a middle aged man, very German features, searching through the second box. And then the third. Finally, upon opening the fourth box he finds the disc, and hurries to open the back door. Red pointy heels, a pair of tight jeans, and a red pea coat all buttoned up. She smiles, long blonde bangs sweeping across her face and to the side. He shows her the disc. No words. And she shows him a backpack in return. He takes the bag, opening it, viewing the endless supply of unmarked bills. And a smile. He hands her the disc and she is quick to slip in to her Black Porsche, speeding away from the bookstore.
Slowly her eyes slip, or maybe blink open. And the light slips in to her body. She aches. Pain throbbing. She sits up and looks around - the same room as before. It's the one she fought Sark in. The one she woke up in before. And her mind slowly slips back, remembering what happened earlier. She remembers the fight with Sark. And she remembers how he stitched her arm. She reaches over, feeling that arm again. There's a bandage on it - just like before. But this time she feels more pain, and she remembers. She remembers the woman who made her think of her mom. She remembers how the heels clicked on the floor and how the woman wouldn't stay still. She remembers how she was constantly up and down from the stool to across the room, creating an air of mystery every time she stepped out of the low hanging light and in to the dark shadows.
Sydney remembers how she asked her about Black hole. And she remembers how the woman continually ripped the stitches from her arm. She stops for the moment, feeling the wound beneath it. She wonders if there are more now. She knows that the woman tore more flesh, and so she wonders if she repaired more. She reaches for the adhesive, slowly pealing it back. "You'll only get infected that way, ya know." She looks up. McKenas Cole. He stands in the doorway, before he walks in, shutting the door behind him. A smile is spread across his place, as usual. And it's always that same smile. That whole crazy psychotic smile. He's carrying a small stack of folded clothes. And Sydney eyes the way he watches her, crossing the room. He places the stack of clothes on the bed, a pair of red sneakers with socks stuffed in them on the top. "Word has it Sark promised you clothes."
"He did." Sydney replies. She looks at the clothing, sifting through the items presented before her. A pair of jeans, and a gray 'Mickey Mouse' T-shirt. She looks up, eyeing him. But she doesn't question the shirt, knowing he'll be fast with a quip about pigtails. Always with the pigtails. She shrugs, looking back up. And he there's a small black box sitting on the table by the door. She wonders what it is. Chooses not to question, not yet, knowing she's going to find out soon enough. She takes a deep breath, pressing her lips together. It's like the moment is frozen, eyes testing boundaries and limits, exploring thoughts and secrets. "Can I have a little privacy?" She asks, looking back down at the stack of clothes.
"Here, answer this question first." He says, that same wild-eyed psychotic smile painted across his features. "Can you be trusted?" The words cut through the silence. They both know the answer. Sydney wants to be deceptive and belligerent. She wants to give him a bold faced 'yes', see how he reacts. "Pig tails, the answer is no." He states. She sighs, looking back down up at the clothes. And then she lets her eyes travel back up to his face, waiting to see what he'll say next. "Of course you can't be trusted! You stabbed Simon Walker in the car on the way over!" Cole shakes his head, a scowl dressed on his features. "You impress me."
Sydney has a sarcastic look on her face. A glare. "Oh." She states, standing. "Good to know I've impressed you. My life was so empty before." And she stops, standing and staring at him. And then raises her eyebrows, expectant. "Well can you at least turn around?" She asks. Cole shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders and holding his hands up, so as to say there's nothing he can do. Sydney groans, rolling her eyes. This is one of those things that she really hates about what she has opted to do for a living. She hates moments like this, where she has to be in close proximity with men like McKenas Cole. She turns, facing the stack of clothes sitting on the bed. She sighs, feeling as his hands rub the back of her neck, slowly pulling the zipper down her back. She mumbles a 'Thank you'.
She hates that she chose not to wear a bra with this dress. But then again she didn't expect to be kidnapped by the Covenant. Again. She didn't expect to have to change her clothes in front of McKenas Cole. She didn't expect any of this. And the black dress drops to the floor, falling to a pile on the floor. She hates that she feels him lifting it up of the ground, after she's kicked it back. She hears as he folds it up, and she first reaches for the jeans, slipping them on over the black underwear - the only piece of clothing she's wearing. And she then reaches for the T-shirt. The symbol of innocence and childishness. The way Cole views her. She takes the shirt, slipping it inside out, and then pulling it on, over her head. Stupid fucking McKenas Cole.
She turns back to face him, and he frowns at the lack of Disney character on her chest. He sighs. She sits down, reaching for the sneakers, and suddenly he's shaking his head, holding his hand up. "Oh, no need, Pig tails." He states, reaching for the shoes. He places them on the floor next to the bed. "You can go ahead and leave those off, since you're going to sleep." She watches as he begins to reach for the box. But Sydney sees it as her opportunity. She's instantly up off the bed, rushing the door, reaching for the handle. But this is the second time that Cole's speed has surprised her, because he has his hand wrapped around her waist, throwing her back toward the bed. And immediately he's there, the box in hand, holding Sydney down.
The escape attempt was futile. She knew it would be. He was standing in between her and the door. There was no way. She only did this, so that she could not later regret not making the attempt. She promised herself, the second Simon took her captive, that no escape attempt would go undone. She would not let herself, her father, or her country down that way. She can hear as the box opens, Sydney lying on her side on the bed. And Cole is straddling her legs, holding her upper body down, her chest facing the bed, with his left hand planted firm on her back. He moves the shirt away slightly, and tugs downward on her pants just so much, before she feels the sharp stinging pain of a needle. A syringe. And injection in the back of her left hip. Instantly Sydney feels drowsy, the tranquilizers entering her blood stream, and working that fast.
"Sleep well, pig tails." Cole stands, getting up off of the woman and taking a few steps back. Sydney doesn't move, taking a deep breath, before she feels her eyelids get heavy. He watches as she moves her body, slightly, adjusting to the bed. "You're only going to be out for a few hours... probably." And he then exits the room, pleased in his own accomplishments, locking the door before him. Sydney's eyes shoot open, and she looks around the room, trying to take one last survey of everything, before her body gives in to the tranquilizer pumping through her body. These people will pay.
5:30 AM. Zurich, Switzerland. She steps out of the black Porsche, long blonde hair now replaced with dark black locks, a cute flipped out hair do around her jaw line. Morning. And she stands in the cement jungle of the large downtown business district of the city. She takes a deep breath, letting it out like a heavy sigh as she waits. The morning is brisk. The air is cold on her cheeks, stinging them with red tones and hues. The red pea coat is gone, replaced by a white fur-lined parka. She sees him approaching, walking fast in her direction. And she's only been out for maybe fifteen minutes, but now there are many people walking past her. The morning is early. And she starts walking in his direction, a not so fast - not so slow pace.
Her eyes glare only slightly, maybe from the cold air, as her hand extends slowly, holding the black jewel case covered disc. The drop - made by hand. And the man is walking, slipping the CD into his black coat pocket. He enters the large business building, signing in for work as the mail-boy. He walks at a quickened pace, picking up the mail to be delivered and reaches the elevator. He takes it up to the 10th floor, stepping out just after the ding. He says a few things to the woman at the desk, and she smiles, sending him into the office. And he walks in, his feet clicking on the hard wood floor. He approaches the desk, placing the stack of mail, as well as the disc just underneath, and then exits. On his way out he stops at the front desk, once more, speaking with the secretary. "So when do you think Mr. Sloane will be back in?"
She smiles. "Later this afternoon." He nods, mentioning a thank-you, leaving the Omni-Fam offices, heading back to the elevator.